Aubrey
by Gryngolet
Summary: What could have happened between Kenny and Aubrey. Or, any excuse for a spanking. Sex and disciplinary spanking.


An unfinished story I wrote years ago for a show called Kidnapped, back when Desmond Harrington was hot. I may have been the only person watching it; it didn't even last a season. Also, for some reason I started this is the present tense and then moved to the past. MAybe some day I'll fix it and finish it.

Aubrey wakes slowly, the beat in her head resolving itself from a dream of jungle drums to the dull thud of a vodka hangover. She can hear water running, somebody singing, badly, too loudly. She squints one eye open and peers around her.

She's in a motel room, in a rumpled bed with a hideous orange and brown cover. Sunlight angles in around the edges of the closed blinds and patchily illumines the room. The guy from last night—Karl? Keith? – is in the shower, massacring Nickleback. She groans, stretches, feels the familiar soreness and stickiness of the morning after as disjointed memories from the night before flash through her mind. Playing pool at Zurich with Di. Cute guy lining up a shot for her at her request, long body enfolding hers, breath hot against her ear as he talks her through it. Leaving Zurich to party here, the guy producing a brown bag bottle of vodka. Doing shot after shot, playing drinking games at which he never seems to lose. A kiss. A hand on her shoulder, pushing her down, down, towards a large and nicely shaped cock. He is not circumcised. A condom appears. Her on top of him. Him on top of her. Bent over the desk. Coming, coming, coming. Coming so loudly he puts a hand over her mouth, whispering "Easy, girl – you're gonna get us kicked out." Damn. Kevin . . . Kenny? Had been an excellent lay. Aubrey can judge, havingM plenty of experience since losing her virginity to Darren Fitzgibbon at Poppy Halliwell's sweet sixteen party three years ago.

She emerges from the bed and searches through her clothes, scattered inside out throughout the room, looking for her pink motorola razr. She wants to text Dianne, let her know she's okay. She locates her jeans, but the phone isn't in any of the pockets. Odd. She must have left it at the bar, or in Kenny's car.

The man himself comes out of the bathroom, still humming, a white hotel towel draped low around lean hips.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," he says, in that faintly raspy, outer-borough accent that raises pleasurable goosebumps on her arms. Her father sounds a bit like that when he's had a couple of drinks or is under the influence of some emotion that lets the rougher edges show. "Bathroom's yours. I'mna get some coffee. We can go out for breakfast when you're ready, but I need caffeine. You want? He seems not at all disconcerted by her nakedness, and so she is not either.

"Can you pick up a bottle of Excedrin? I may have hit the vodka too hard last night."

He smiles, crosses to her, kisses her on the forehead. "Poor baby. Take a nice hot shower. I'll be back in a few." She leans into him, unable to help it, pressing her unclothed body against his barely-covered one. He chuckles softly and pulls away from her, tips her chin up to give her a toothpaste-flavored kiss. "When I get back."

The bathroom has a deep, wide tub, and Aubrey decides to take a soak in it rather than a shower. There is a water game she and her little brother Leopold have played ever since she was 14, whenever they were together at their building's pool. They would see who could hold their breath the longest. Eyes open but submerged in the white, white bathroom, Aubrey feels an odd sense of peace despite the urging of her lungs toward air. She comes up for air, and checks her watch: 3 minutes, 4 seconds. Kenny is there; he has come back with her coffee and Excedrin.

Over chocolate chip pancakes with faces on them at the local diner, they talk. He is from the same neighborhood in Queens where her father grew up, but doesn't know him. She is fascinated by him, by his strong, spare body, his almost-handsome face, pale green eyes and slightly crooked teeth. New York Irish done absolutely perfect. A little rough around the edges, a little too old for her, but with the shy-boy smile and effortless charm of a screen idol. The kind of guy Dianne would enjoy introducing to her parents, just to watch them squirm. Aubrey has the kind of parents who could make any guy squirm, then make him disappear.

She waits in his car while he makes a phone call near the diner's entrance. She's annoyed that her cell phone is lost. She and Di have a system, they always call the next day, or text, to rate the previous night's experience, and let each other know they're okay. She wonders if Di met someone, too, or went home alone. It's Friday, and she has classes today, but they seem to be driving towards New York. She feels suddenly uneasy. Wants a cigarette though her habit is mostly affectation, something that _does _make her mother squirm. There is an open box of Marlboro lights on the dashboard, but no matches left in the pack. She opens the glove box to look for a lighter, and there inside is her cell. Her first thought is delight, and she grabs for it, but as she does she is thinking Kenny must have put it there, it couldn't have fallen accidentally into his glove box. Then she sees the photos, surveillance pictures, all of her, from days ago. _Who is this guy?_ Aubrey is her father's daughter. She doesn't waste time, or panic, or dither. Survival mode kicks in. She runs. He sees her and gives chase, catches her. She struggles, screams. He fights to subdue her, cursing. She tries to knee his groin, but he dodges, turning his hips to the side, wise to the tricks of dirty fighting, and aims a surgically efficient jab at her jaw. Sharp pain, then blackness.

She wakes again on a bed, again to pulsing pain in her head, although this pain is radiating from the place on her jaw where she was hit. She is nauseated, and her wrists are bound behind her back with wire ties. Her ankles are tied, too. She is lying on her side on musty-smelling bed with a bare mattress strewn with various blankets, in a open, cluttered, graffiti-covered room in some kind of abandoned building. The windows show buildings, elevated train tracks. No people. She looks around her, but he is gone. She is not gagged. She tries to lever herself into a sitting position, but the movement is unwise, and she retches up the remnants of her chocolate chip pancakes onto the bed. She has just enough energy to edge away from the mess before she passes out again.

She wakes again when he comes back, with a pizza and a sixpack of Coke. He sees the vomit, shakes his head, and putting the food down on a crate, come over and eases her to a sitting position. She cringes when he flicks open a butterfly knife he takes from his back pocket, but he only cuts the ties around her wrists and ankles, then takes a clean corner of the blanket she puked on and wipes her face. He balls the dirty blanket up and tosses it into the far corner of the room, and comes back to her with a bottle of coke and the Excedrin he bought earlier. He holds the bottle to her face, other hand on the back of her head, and makes her drink, and it clears the foulness from her mouth and throat. He gives her three pills, tells her to swallow, and she does, grateful that the pounding, nauseous pain will soon be less. After a while she feels that it's wrong to be leaning against him, letting him stroke her hair. He has kidnapped her, tied her up, hit her. My god, she had sex with him! Did he rape her? No, she concludes. He may have met her under false pretenses, but everything that happened last night, and this morning before breakfast, was consensual. Still, she's a Caine. She'd better grow a backbone and start acting like one. She straightens, looks at him. "Whoever you are, my father will pay you more than you're getting if you let me go now."

He lets go of her, gets up. "Forget it. Where I come from, you get hired to do a job, you do it. Trying to play both sides is a quick way to get dead." He goes over to the food, grabs a slice of pizza, continues to talk while he chews. "Want a slice?"

"Screw you!"

He is on top of her before she knows he is coming, fury blazing in his strange pale eyes, his hands rough on her shoulders. "Screw _me_? Screw _you_! You ruined the best job I ever had, getting paid to nail some poor little rich girl, keep her under wraps for a couple a days. And you'da been none the wiser, except for all of your _upbringing_, the one thing you didn't remember was to keep your _nose_" he punctuates this by touching his nose to hers "outta other people's personal things!" He releases her shoulders, and turns away, making a visible attempt to calm himself down.

Aubrey is frightened. She has not seen him like this before; even when he punched her he seemed more exasperated than angry. Tears come unbidden to her eyes, but she blinks them back and gets to what she sees as the most important implication of his speech.

"So you're going to let me go?"

He looks back at her. "I'll drop you at Penn Station tomorrow morning. You can take a train back to school."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

He shakes his head. "It's a job. That's all you're gonna know. Now you are gonna be a _good little girl_" he gives the words a sardonic twist "and eat your pizza, and behave yourself, and you'll be happy on that train tomorrow. Or, you can make trouble for me, and be a pain in my ass, and I'll beat _your _ass so raw you'll stand up all the way from NY to Providence. And _then_ you'll eat your pizza and behave yourself." He is looking at her closely, so closely that she is not sure she has turned away quickly enough to conceal the shameful flame of excitement his threat has kindled in her. No one has spanked her since she was old enough to tie her own shoes, but she has scattered memories of childhood spankings. Once when she was five or so, she went into her father's study and made paper dolls with some boring-looking papers on his desk, and her father came in to get them for a meeting and was furious. He'd reminded her that she was not allowed to touch anything on his desk, especially not papers and certainly not sharp scissors. Then he'd taken her over his knee on his leather desk chair, pulled up her denim skirt and given her ten hard whacks on her Power Puff Girl panties. He held her on his lap while she cried, then exclaimed over the cleverness of the dolls she had made. She remembered he had spent a good 15 minutes with her, soothing her and playing with her, and she'd mostly forgotten the spanking by the time she'd skipped out of his office. Roger, her father's lawyer, and several other men in suits had been pacing in the hall outside the study, and they burst in after she left.

But suddenly the though of being spanked, the thought of being in this man's power, was overwhelmingly erotic to her. _I must be insane_, she thought. _I've been kidnapped, I'm being held by force and threatened with violence, and all I can think of is how hot it makes me. _Well, okay, maybe not violence, but . . . she shook her head to clear it, and the wave of pain and sickness the motion brought did clear away all thoughts of sex. She whimpered piteously, and gratefully took the can of Coke he offered. After a while her stomach felt better, and she had some pizza, too. She was a Caine, and she was going to prove her mettle, but she would wait until she felt a bit better to make a break for it.

Kenny was worried. He watched the brat sleeping and paced the room. The plan had been to keep her occupied for a few days and then send her on her way home, not realizing anything had been amiss. She'd think he was a jerk when she couldn't get in touch with him again, but that was okay. Now she's seen him and she knew he'd kidnapped her. He had to come up with a way to keep her from going to the cops with his description as soon as she saw the back of him. He didn't want to hurt her, wouldn't hurt her, but he had to do something. She was hot, though, and wild. Sex with her had been amazing, and he'd seen the interest in her eyes when he threatened to spank her. He was beat, and the girl looked like she'd be out for a while. He decided to close his eyes for a bit. Later he'd see if he could talk her into another round of acrobatics before they had to say goodbye.

Aubrey opened her eyes when she heard his breathing even into the pattern of sleep. The room was dark, and she got up slowly, easing life into muscles too long stationary. She tiptoed past him and looked out the window. The neighborhood was unfamiliar, industrial. She could see traffic below, and cabs. She didn't have much money, but she had enough to catch a cab to the nearest subway, and from there she could get to her parents' apartment. She looked down on him sleeping in the gloom, but thought better of trying to pick his pocket. Even in sleep, he looked dangerous, like a dozing leopard that would wake ready to leap on its prey. She tiptoed past him, not breathing, and found the door. The building seemed to be abandoned. She found a stairwell, and made her cautious way in darkness down to the street.

It was the silence that woke him rather than any sound. His subconscious suddenly made him aware that the only one breathing in the room was him. He leapt from sleep to his feet with a curse, and took a quick survey of the apartment. She was gone. He was sure she hadn't been gone long, and he made sure he had his Glock loaded and ready to fire before he bolted down the stairs after her.

She made it to the corner before the trouble started. The neighborhood was largely industrial, with traffic flowing by quickly on one of the approaches to the Van Wyck Expressway, but there were those who lurked in the near abandoned alleys who saw great opportunity in this young white girl in her too-expensive clothes alone in a rough neighborhood in the middle of the night. She was surrounded by a group of three rough looking men by the time Kenny came jogging up to her.

"'Scuse me, guys, my ole lady seems to be lost." He pushed into the middle and grabbed her arm. "The pharmacy's this way, babe." He gave the hoods an apologetic grin. "Outta condoms." The flash of the pistol at his hip when he deliberately pulled his jacket back dissuaded any of the men from making trouble, and they melted away. His grip on her bicep was steely, and he said not a word to her as he marched her back towards the apartment. They were upstairs before he spoke.

"You realize that any one of those guys would rape you and kill you for the fun of it? Then they'd rape you again. You pampered, stupid princess. You have no idea where you are; this ain't the upper East Side."

Aubrey had been frightened by the men and grateful to be rescued, even if it meant being back under Kenny's power. The fact that he was absolutely right in his assessment of the situation did nothing to keep her temper in check. It may have made it worse.

"Stupid! You call me stupid, you fucking asshole!" She sprang at him, hands clawed. Aubrey had taken several self-defense classes, mandated by her father, but this was not Krav Maga or Jiu Jitsu. She had regressed into primal girl-fight mode. Kenny had her arms pinned behind her back before she had completed her charge. He sat on the couch, pulling her down over his left knee, his right leg trapping her kicking legs. He administered a series of stinging slaps to her denim-covered ass, stopping only when after a few minutes her struggles tapered off into involuntary twitches at each spank. He rested his hand on her rear, feeling the heat he had put there, proprietary.

"What did I tell you would happen if you didn't behave?" he asked.

She was silent, no longer defiant.

"What?" he prompted, bringing his palm down hard.

"You said you'd . . . you'd beat my ass so raw I couldn't sit down."

"Amazing, you can answer a question civilly. And did you behave?"

"Noooo." That came out in a pathetic moan.

"I want you to stand up, and pull down your jeans and your panties. Then you'll lie back over my lap and I'm going to spank you 50 times with my hand. You give me any trouble and there'll be fifty more after that with the belt. Got it?"

Piteously: " Yes."

She did as she was told, but the look she cast him over her shoulder as she was settling herself over his lap told him, if the smell of sex she exuded and the dampness he glimpsed between her legs hadn't already, that she was into this. Still, a belt strapping was severe for a first time spanking, and he hoped she wouldn't make it necessary.


End file.
